


Kiss me under the Light of a thousand Stars

by JuliaBaggins



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Enjolras is suffering, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Memories, Tears, this is really really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 10:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7841731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaBaggins/pseuds/JuliaBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras knows that he'll never see the love of his life again. That Grantaire is gone, forever. </p><p>His broken heart remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss me under the Light of a thousand Stars

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, I'm having a really hard time atm, and a green mug that won't ever be used again inspired me to write this. I don't think I've ever cried this much while writing a FanFic before, and still, it somehow helped me. At least a bit.

Enjolras is sitting at the kitchen table, not moving. He’s frozen, his body turned to stone, and he wishes he could say the same about his heart. But he can’t. His heart is very alive, it’s feeling and it’s hurting oh so much as it is shattered to tiny little pieces that won’t ever fit together again. 

His bright blue eyes, clouded by pain and by tears, are fixed on the sink. On the two mugs there, his white one decorated with little brown dots and the green one Grantaire used to drink his morning tea out of. It’s a deep green, like the forest in the evening light, and there is a tiny white spot at the edge, where a piece of the porcelain broke out. Grantaire never seemed to mind, or he rather pointed out that things like this, little imperfections, would be what gave character, to people as well as tea mugs. It was standing there, so innocent, so _unknowing,_ like the two of them would sit down the next morning again at this very table, Grantaire taking a whole lot of sugar into his tea and Enjolras smiling into his own about it.

Finally, as he rememberes how well this green mug fitted Grantaire’s favorite cardigan, the one that made you feel cozy and warm from just looking at it, Enjolras’ stony façade breaks. He buries his face in his hands, violent sobs shaking through his body while he is unable to make his brain listen to him, to stop reminding him of arguments over tea mugs and marmalade. Of the times when both of them had said things they weren’t meaning, things they’d later apologize for, of how much he had sometimes secretly enjoyed arguing with Grantaire. He had never enjoyed hurting him, of course not, had always cursed himself internally as soon as he realized that he had gone too far. 

They had had a pretty nasty discussion just two weeks ago, one that ended with Grantaire storming out of the room, and now, everything Enjolras’ brain is showing him is the very expression in R’s eyes as he stood up to storm away. They had hugged each other shortly after, Enjolras had explained that he hadn’t meant what he said and Grantaire had forgiven him. Enjolras was aware that his husband hadn’t been mad with him afterwards, that things were okay between them – or, no, not okay. Things were never just _okay_ between the two of them, it was always so much more. Still, there is this image in his mind, the hurt in Grantaire’s eyes, and suddenly, he wonders if he told him often enough how much he loves him. Or at least as often as possibly, as there would never be enough time in the world to tell Grantaire this as often as he would have deserved to hear it.

Enjolras can remember the last time he had said the words, or rather sobbed them. He had been holding Grantaire’s hand, a hand that was made for art and music and waving at friends and holding his own, and that was now so cold, cold, cold. His blurry gaze had been fixed at Grantaire’s chest, his mind always expecting it to rise again, but it never did. When this knowledge finally set in, the impossibility of his love ever breathing again, he had oh so carefully run his shaking fingers through dark curls, curls that still smelled of paint and trees and freedom. And he had whispered the words, his own voice hard to understand through his sobbing.

“I love you. Forever.”

The memory of this has Enjolras shaking at his kitchen table even more, and the worst is the _forever._ Because every time he had told Grantaire that he loved him with this exact choice of words, his eyes had lit up at the forever, a fond smile at his lips, and once he had told Enjolras that for him, forever meant growing old together, sitting side by side at a wooden bench, grey curls and knitted sweaters, a dog running around them. Back then, Enjolras had ensured him that they’d have exactly this, their own little eternity of a whole life together. And now it was… gone. The possibility of this future as well as every other. As well as Grantaire. _Gone._ Forever, but not in the sense of together forever. His beloved R would never come back to him, never walk through the kitchen door again, a book or a paintbrush in his hands, complaining about the smell of what Enjolras was cooking, the smile never leaving his face. The green mug would never be used again.

Enjolras allows himself to think of their first meeting, convinced it won’t be able to hurt him more than he already is. But of course he’s wrong. It feels as if it was yesterday, him visiting an art competition in a neighboring city with friends, the man with the dark curls and these deep eyes that had bewitched Enjolras as soon as they had met his own for the first time. He thinks of their first date, of heartfelt smiles and the shy brush of fingers, of the way his heart seemed to explode with happiness the first time that Grantaire had told him that he loved him, sounding like he had never been so sure about anything else in his life before. Enjolras remembers how they had bought their house, half a ruin, the small garden covered in weed, how they had turned it into their _home_ together. He thinks of a shirtless Grantaire, polishing his SUV on a hot summer day, of stolen kisses during walks in the woods nearby, of R bringing flowers for him when he got home late from work. Of how much Grantaire had loved working at the school, sharing his love for arts with the students, how much the children had loved him back. For a moment, he wonders if they already know.

There’s a sound, one that reminds Enjolras of a door being opened, and without thinking about it, he looks up. Because the logical side of his brain _knows_ that Grantaire won’t ever walk through their kitchen door again, but that doesn’t mean that years and years of routine wouldn’t have left their traces. So he looks up, and of course the door is still closed, of course there is no one there, but it hurts. It hurts So. Much. 

Enjolras forces his gaze away from the door, unwilling to look at how mercilessly closed it is for any longer, and his eyes land on a small painting next to it. Grantaire had done it during their holidays in Brazil years ago, sitting on some mountain whose name Enjolras can’t remember anymore, caching the breathtaking scenery while blond curls rested on his shoulder. They had sat there for a long time, Grantaire’s arms wrapped around Enjolras when he had finished his drawing and the cold started to settle in, both of them comfortable in staying there as long as possible. Oh, if they just had been able to. Soft grass beneath them, the sound of the nearby ocean a background noise, the endless sky filled with millions and millions of stars above them. Back then, Enjolras had pointed out how beautiful the stars were and his R had replied that they weren’t as beautiful as his Apollo. It was cheesy, and cliché-like, and Enjolras had loved it. Which Grantaire knew very well. 

When they sat there, under the stars and so close to each other that they could feel each other’s heartbeat, they had been convinced that there would never be anything that would be able to separate them. Enjolras remembers this, remembers Grantaire’s lips on his skin, a whispered question if he would marry him. 

The stars had been their witness, of the question, of Enjolras’ cheerful yes, of happy tears and kisses and a hug that seemed to last forever. 

The stars had seen this all. 

And now, today, Enjolras had picked out a gravestone for Grantaire, one with tiny little stars at the left side. How beautiful it was, and how he had never hated anything as much as choosing it, as accepting the horrible truth that made this necessary. Oh, how he secretly wished that his own name would join Grantaire’s there soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Nice comments would be wonderful.


End file.
